The Method to Madness
by Indie Lolita
Summary: When Loki Laufeyson is sent to Ashby House for the mentally unstable, he is a broken soul stripped of his power, real name, and ability to speak. Colette a flighty French nurse who can barely speak English is assigned to be his caretaker. Bruce Banner is sent to keep an eye on Ashby House and their infamous patient. The stage is set; let our story begin. Bruce/OC/ Loki. No slash


The Method of Madness

Disclaimer: I own nothing beside my original characters and plot. Yet, I am owned by Loki Laufeyson.

_I will be king and you… You will be queen, though nothing will drive them away. We can beat them… Just for one day. We can be heroes just for one day. ~ Heroes by David Bowie_

Chapter the First: Fragile Souls

Death would come as a friend, a ghostly host with open arms shrouded by a cloak of lost souls. The lost prince of Asgard wished to bury his body amongst the many folds of the cloak and to become one with the thoughts of what could have been.

The cold metal pressed against his stifled mouth seared his skin with its chill, and the steel bands around his bony wrists bit angrily into his pale flesh. Loki failed to notice either. He did, however, take note of the pale gold sheen of the All Father's eye guard and of the crisp azure of his one good eye.

Loki was currently on his knees before Odin and Frigga, the draft of the throne room ruffling his limp black hair. A pair of husky golden skinned guards flanked his sides, their jaws locked and their stances stiff. A thick callused hand rested on Loki's frail shoulder, a hand that brought with it the scent of leather and iron: dearest brother Thor. Loki's wrists writhed in their binds, longing for nothing more than to dispel the warm palm that was positioned on his being...then to destroy the body to which it belonged. He asked for so very little.

"You, Loki, son of the frost giant Laufey of Jotunheim, are brought forth to be punished for your crimes against the inhabitants of Midgard," boomed Odin, his deep rumble vibrating through the rough cotton of Loki's tunic, straight into his numb core. Loki jutted his pointed chin and met his father's accusatory scowl with idle yet adamant disdain. _Be swift, old man_, he thought, _I have my own execution to attend._

"Thor, my son and heir, has returned you to Asgard under the belief you would be better supervised by the people with whom you were raised, and that we would find a just penalty for you many wrongdoings," continued Odin, looming over his once-son and binding his fingers on his lap, "however, after consulting the people of Asgard, it has been brought to light that you are not welcome here, and henceforth cannot stay."

Thor's hand clenched Loki's shoulders, but the lie smith simply rolled his weary eyes. _Get on with it_, he mentally growled, awaiting his death sentence almost eagerly.

"Your sentence is as such," declared Odin, rising from his throne and gripping his staff, "you shall be stripped of your sorcery and psychic abilities, your voice will be taken from you permanently, your name will be changed, and you will be sent to what is called a mental asylum on Midgard. You will stay in the facility and live as mortal with mental disabilities until you have proven to your people you are a reformed man, if that is even a possibility."

Loki then raised a dark eyebrow in confusion. This was certainly...peculiar. Thor shook his head violently, sending his golden mane flying, each strand slapping the air like a whip.

"Father! This is not what we had discussed," Thor claimed in outrage, "Loki was to stay here...in Asgard. The people of Earth, of Midguard, do not want him...and an insane asylum? Why?"

Odin shut his one eye and sighed, stepping down from his throne to approach his son and Loki, "Loki has to be forced into humility, Thor my son, for it does not come as easily to some as it did for you. I chose to send him to Midguard for it is the one place he wanted to control, and it is the place of his defeat. The land upon which he will stay will be a constant reminder of his foolishness and conceit. He shall become one of the beings he so despised."

Rage had been growing like a cancer in Loki, entering first his viridian eyes, secondly his trembling hands, and thirdly in his legs as he suddenly stood from his kneeling position. He felt an animalistic scream rising in his throat, along with a bitter taste of resentment. He wanted death! He wanted isolation! The guards swiftly had him by his arms, their strong hands making his tensed muscles look like reeds as they dragged him down once more, forcing him to kneel before a somber Odin. The king glanced down at his once-son with a stern glance, which, when his eye caught a certain light, looked almost sorrowful.

"Does SHEILD know of this, father?" questioned Thor. Loki's eyes narrowed dangerously, images of a jeering crowd of those...mutants...prodding him with scalpels and calling him mentally unstable. Odin nodded his grey head majestically.

"Yes, they have been informed along with the manager of the institution. The nurses and doctors will be left in the dark of his true identity. Loki, you shall from this day forth, be called Jude Taylor, a mute and hostile resident of Ashby House. Follow me."

Loki blanched at his sentence, flinching not as the guards gripped his upper arms with their bronzed fingers but as Thor patted his frail shoulder reassuringly. How dare he act as a fraternal figure to him after all that he has done? Thor was now as much as a brother to the fallen prince as Odin was a father. Loki would have spat upon him if not for the muzzle across his papery lips.

He was dragged down one of the winding corridors of his youth and into a room in which he'd never been: the penalty chamber. As a child, he used to pretend he'd become king and bring Thor into this room, kicking and screaming like an infant. He'd then teach him the true meaning of power and respect. The walls radiated a faint blue glow and were lined with shining glass cases filled with many different strange instruments. The doors closed behind the surly guards and the room was filled with an unearthly silence. Odin appraised his once-son, placing a hand on his staff.

"Do you regret your actions Loki?"

Loki slipped into Odin's mind with ease, since he was not guarded. He paused until he knew Odin was listening, waiting.

_Never_

But as he was extricated of all he had and filled with a pain that was anything but sweet, Loki realized he did regret. For a second of wide eyed frailty, Loki dropped to his knees and lamented. Then he caught his reflection in one of the glass cases and remembered, despite his hollow eyes and sallow skin, he was superior. Without his powers, his voice, his identity, he was still a born king. Loki then allowed himself to succumb to the murky obscurity that was clouding his view.

As he disappeared into the realm of unconsciousness, Loki smiled.

* * *

_Ashby House, October 7__th__, 2013_

"Colette! Wake up!" yelled a husky voice through the old white door of a sleeping woman's bedroom. A small woman lay inside the room, a singular head of fair strands nestled in a cocoon of thin grey and blue blankets. Outside, a distraught young woman pounded on the door with a pale red-knuckled fist.

Colette shifted uncomfortably in her light blue sheets, her numbly cold feet searching for the floor beside her bed. She furrowed her dark brows and rubbed the corners of her eyes vigorously, reaching over to a ceramic bowl on her dresser to splash a handful of cold water on her face. Her heart hammered in her chest as she glanced at her clock, still illuminated by the light of the moon: 2:45 am. _It's just another one of Gemma's nightmares_, she thought, _oh God, please let it be another nightmare_.

She padded over to her door, her thin nightgown's lace tickling the tops of her bare feet. When she threw open her door, bluish light from the lamps in the hall cast an eerie glow on the waif-like woman standing before her.

Still, Gemma was as harshly beautiful as ever with her impossibly long brown waves tied back to frame a freckled face made of sharp lines and arched brows. Colette observed the grave look in her friend's small narrow eyes, the sweat on the neckline of her tight black tank top, and finally the garnet red stains on her shaking palms.

"Mon Diu" Colette exclaimed, her breath visible in the frigid hall. Gemma closed her eyes and took a long shuddering breath of her own before opening them once more and reconstructing her stern facade, her grey eyes turning into shards of gunmetal.

"Follow me, there's been an accident," she instructed, and despite her austere manner, her shaking bloodied hand sought out Colette's. She, in return, wound her fingers around her friend's, ignoring the sticky warm feeling of the blood against her once-clean palm.

"It is un malade? A-a patient, no?" she questioned, her native tongue mixing with her English as the women hurriedly ran through the cold empty halls.

"No Lettie," Gemma responded with a shake of her head, the familiar patronizing tone creeping into her voice, "not a patient, it's Beckett."

Once again that night, Colette was enshrouded by mystery and bathed in a pale faced chill. Declan Beckett was a fellow nurse and guard at the asylum, a broad-shouldered twenty-something Irishman. Colette could clearly see his wide crinkled grin, squared stubble covered chin, and his large rough hand rubbing circles in between her shoulder blades. She would have smiled at the thought of him, but Colette found her lips simply wouldn't turn. The white washed halls for once looked sullied and grey, seeing as the only light to brighten them came from the open door at the end of the hall which led to the front parlor.

"Wh-what is w-wrong w-with Dec-Beckett?" Colette inquired, flinching inwardly at the sound of her pathetic stutter. She watched as Gemma frowned deeply, lines appearing on the sides of her arrow-straight mouth. The brunette simply pursed her lips and shook her head once more, an unspoken 'leave me be and see for yourself'.

They stumbled down the hall in silence, free palms gliding across the smooth empty walls until they reached the front parlor. Gemma abruptly pulled her hand from Colette's and used it to shove open the heavy mahogany door, thin muscles rippling under her ivory skin.

Flashing lights and murmured voices filled Colette's ears as soon as the door was open. She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the light, and soon the scene began to materialize before her: there was a ring of people in the center of the parlor, policemen talking into radios and phones, doctors in swishing white coats, and a reporter with a silver flashing camera. Colette rushed into the mob, her feet silent on the marble floor. Elbows crashed into her sides and heels fell upon her bare toes, but she didn't feel a thing.

Finally, she pushed past the last two people that were preventing her from reaching the mob's center. Suddenly, at the sight, Colette's stomach twisted and her legs collapsed. There, limp upon the black and white tile, lay Beckett, his leg bent at an impossible angle and the side of his head damp with blood. Colette crawled on her hands and knees over to his side, her whole body being encompassed by a tingling chill.

"Miss, we ask you stay away from the body," a clipped faceless voice instructed, along with a gloved hand that smelled of antiseptic on her trembling back.

"No!" she cried, wriggling her body away from the hand and biting her swollen lip. She knelt beside the fellow nurse, her tears falling in multitude on his motionless face. For the first time, she looked at him, really looked at him. Her tear-clouded eyes took in his vibrant red hair that always seemed to fall into his laughing face, the cinnamon freckles that decorated his strong nose, the tiny white scar on his pale chin. She let one trembling hand course over his cold cheek.

"Declan…" she whispered, "Declan, wake up, Declan, don't leave me…" Her silent tears became wracking sobs as she succumbed to grief, her hands clenching the soft grey wool of his sweater.

"What happened, please, someone tell me what happened?" she whispered, laying her heavy head against his chest and hearing nothing but the sound of her own fractured breaths. An elderly man wearing a soft plaid button-up stood before her, wringing his hat in his aged knotted hands.

"There, there had been an accident on the road. My…my truck went out of control, and after the crash I brought him here. My eyesight ain't what it used to be...I didn't mean to…never meant to…" he stammered, his milky blue eyes fogging over, his shoulders shaking violently.

Colette reached up with one pale arm and grasped his hand in hers, forcing a sympathetic smile to her lackluster lips, a silent 'you are forgiven'. She let go and fell over onto the tile once more, draping her arms over Declan's body and whispering old French prayers spoken only in hushed tones.

A finger tapped her shoulder gingerly, and her red circled eyes rose to meet the inquisitive gaze of the reporter. The man before her looked like an overgrown adolescent, gangly and dressed in a t-shirt and torn jeans.

"What is your relation to this man, Miss…" the man-boy questioned, pushing his glasses up with a finger and taking out a ball point pen. Colette took in a deep breath, bringing oxygen into her deprived lungs. She didn't snap at the reporter; she had no right to, for he was only doing his job. Instead, she lifted her head with a small smile, flushing as the room fell into a hushed silence.

"I am a-a- nurse 'ere," she started, furrowing her brow as she tried to organize the many confusing English words in her head, "a-and so is he. Declan Beckett was…he was also my…we were…going to marry."

The doctors who knew her gasped, and she took slight pleasure in the way Gemma's severe brows rose ever so slightly. No one knew. Everyone at the asylum thought he preferred the more striking Gemma Frost. No one saw the many things he gave Colette: the hallway winks, the bags of red licorice he left at her bedroom door, the kisses behind curtains, or the English lessons given in the dark of night.

Now they never would.

Colette gazed down at her fiancé one last time—if she squinted, she could still see the laugh lines on his face—before a stark white sheet was thrown over his body. In a daze, she felt hands on her waist, her arms, pulling her to her feet, supporting her on her trembling legs.

Her neck was limp; her head hung low, straight blonde hair creating curtains around her small face. Colette let the tide of moving bodies shuffle her into a room that smelled of leather and coffee: the boss's office. She felt the hands leave her trembling frame as she was laid upon a sleek black loveseat, a pillow shoved under her head. She heard the voices leave, one by one. She heard the reporter's pen click a final time before a door was shut and silence was invited inside the room.

"Mademoiselle Delapierre," a voice called, a familiar voice, "I know there has been a great tragedy, but there is another matter I must address."

Colette sat up and out of her stupor, rubbing her damp eyes gently with one hand. Mr. Frost sat across from her on a small stool holding a file. He was the owner, manager, and part-time doctor of Ashby House, a man softened by years but hardened by experience. His short salt and pepper hair was cropped severely and a sharply tended beard and moustache surrounded his mouth, but his eyes were a softer gentler grey than his warrior queen of a daughter.

"Yezzir," she responded, nodding her head compliantly. Mr. Frost gave her a small close lipped smile that translated into 'good girl', and passed her the thin folder tentatively. Colette reached for it with steady fingers, staring at the blocky black print on the white label.

"Jude Taylor," she read, 'Jude' sounding more like 'Zhude'. These files were given to each nurse before they were assigned a new patient, providing information on each troubled individual. Mr. Snow always gave her the non-hostile patients, the easy ones, because he favored her, a fact that Gemma always had resented. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, for her last patient had just been released and she was allowed two weeks to visit family in between patients. She surely needed her Aunt Odie right now.

"Ah, to explain," Mr. Frost started gently, "Mr. Beckett has-had a patient due in three days' time, but now that he is…unavailable, we need someone to take his patient. You are the only nurse open for the job. I insisted that my daughter take this patient and you take hers instead, but she claimed you were too…fragile for her patient. I'm so sorry for your loss, love."

Colette nodded mutely, tucking a pin straight lock behind her ear. She would do the right thing for Ashby House, even if it wasn't the right thing for her.

_Fragile_…that word had followed Colette for all of her years, along with _delicate_ and _sensitive._ She was warm hearted, a lover not a fighter. In this day and age, how dare a woman actually act like a lady! Movies and books portrayed all women now as Amazon warriors who sneer down at foolish useless men. Colette was not an Amazon, nor would she ever be.

Who knows, maybe she was too soft. Too weak as she lay curled in her empty bed, the file pressed to her chest. Too weak as she closed her eyes and saw the dead body of the man she loved.

Too weak as she shuddered, remembering the two words she read in Jude Taylor's file: **_Extremely Hostile_.**

A/N: Thank you for reading! I know there are quite a few Loki stories out there, but for whatever reason you chose mine, I thank you. Reviews are lovely


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